"I've really done it this time," he muttered as he leaped over a gravestone, long coat and colored hair flapping haphazardly behind him. He heard a gunshot and I immediately dropped to the ground and rolled, a bullet whistling past his left arm. He ran behind a particularly ornate mausoleum surrounded by leafless trees and paused to catch his breath.
The problem, Graverobber reflected as he leaned against the cold stone, is that I'm too damn good at my job. Zydrate was so easy to come by, he was surprised people were still willing to pay so much per vial-not that he was complaining. It was too simple; sneak in, fill up on Z, hide from guards, sneak back out, sell at ridiculously high prices to ridiculously stupid scalpel sluts, repeat. He had chosen this line of work for the adrenaline, for the risk, and for the fun. Where's the fun in repetition?
Another gunshot pierced the air, and Graves quickly decided that while there was little fun in repetition, there was infinitely less fun in being dead.
He knew he had been pushing his luck, teasing a group of four armed Genecops, but danger had never stopped him before. Unfortunately, with five guards approaching from the front and two from each side, it appeared as if danger was about to stop him quite literally in his tracks, in the form of a bullet.
Graverobber scanned the graveyard wildly. If there was one thing he had learned from his fifteen years on the streets, it was that there was always a way out. He spotted a metal fence about forty feet directly across from him, and surmised that his odds were moderate, which was good enough for him.
Fortunately for all involved parties, at this moment the door to the next mausoleum opened and a hooded figure peered out.
"Excuse me-" she addressed the guards. The Graverobber recognized the voice right away. Even as he moved from his partially hidden spot toward the figure, he silently thanked whatever god had been watching over him. He couldn't have asked for better leverage.